


Gather out of Stardust

by clio



Series: where the falling stars live [4]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Light Angst, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio/pseuds/clio
Summary: The lights above continue to flicker on and on into infinity. A whisper of a breeze surrounds them in the delicate perfume of the night blossoms. And here, on this planet, this singular point in the whole of the universe, where he is wrapped up in Omera’s arms and in the gentle cadence of her voice, he prays that dawn never comes.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera
Series: where the falling stars live [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176716
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Mandomera Week 2021





	Gather out of Stardust

**Author's Note:**

> Set on Sorgan during S1E4.
> 
> prompt: quiet

_Gather out of star-dust,_   
_Earth-dust,_   
_Cloud-dust,_   
_Storm-dust,_   
_And splinters of hail,_   
_One handful of dream-dust,_   
_Not for sale._

\- **Langston Hughes**

With one final look at the child, who remains blissfully unaware as he sleeps soundly in his crib, the Mandalorian slips out of the barn and into the cover of night. 

It is quiet and still, the twin moons hanging low in the sky. 

And there, at the bottom of the steps, she waits for him, a blanket slung over one arm while the other carries a lantern. She smiles at him as he comes to stand before her. 

“Ready?” Omera asks, her voice a breath above a whisper.

“Where are we going?” he responds.

“There’s something I want to show you,” she replies instead, turning down a path. “Come on.” 

He hesitates.

Earlier in the day, after they had disposed of the bounty hunter and the village had settled down again, after he had announced that he and the child couldn’t stay, that they would be leaving at first light, Omera had cornered him by the long hall and asked him if he would meet her after nightfall. He had hesitated then, too, compelled by his desire to say yes even against his sound judgement. 

But now, like then—like so many times before—he says _yes_ anyway. 

They walk silently along the dirt paths of the sleeping village, guided by nothing but her soft footfalls and the dim light from the lantern that sways at her side. She takes him beyond the boundaries of the village, beyond the last krill pond, and past the surrounding trees. They walk among the tall grass of the fields, following along a narrow and well-trodden trail until it opens up to reveal the bank of a small stream. 

He hadn’t known what to expect when he first followed her into the dark, but it certainly hadn't been this. 

The ground under his feet slopes ever so slightly towards the water, dipping low until met with lush flowering plants that grow along its edges. And beyond that, right before him, the entire galaxy unfolds in all its cosmic splendor. He’s been to so many remote pockets of the universe and has born witness to all its angles that he is seldom impressed by the offerings of deep space, but like this, with her, he knows that he could search every single system and never come across stars like these.

“Here we are,” Omera says with a shy smile as she settles the lantern and blanket on a nearby rock. “Mine and Winta’s favorite place.”

He watches as she approaches the closest plant, its large white flowers tilted towards the moonlight. “These are night blossoms,” she explains quietly.

“Each one will only bloom for one evening and one evening only,” she continues, cradling one in her palm. “By dawn these will have all wilted away.” 

“They’re my favorite flower,” she adds a little wistfully. “When they are in bloom, we can smell their fragrance all the way back at the village. And every year I can't wait to catch that first sign of their arrival.” 

Even through the thickness of his helmet, he can make out the distinct notes of the potent yet delicate scent. It is a heady, enchanting mix. Like sweetness and a keen untamed wildness—one that hints strongly of summer storms and painted skies, of inky dreams and a deep, profound hope.

“They’re very nice,” he manages eventually.

She glances at him. “I thought it would be a shame for you to leave without seeing them.”

He remains silent as Omera reaches up to trace the petals of another nearby blossom. “They bring us such joy and beauty. We count it an honor for us to bear witness to them.”

She lets her hand fall to her side. "We do not begrudge them their fleeting nature, but rather celebrate and cherish our time with them." 

And like this, bathed in the light of the twin moons, arrayed against the night shadows with flowers in her hair and starlight upon her brow, he suddenly feels a tightness in his chest.

She turns to face him fully. “And we are comforted by the hope that they will return to us again.”

And there it is. 

“Omera…” It slips from him unbidden but he lets it hang there, suspended and uncertain, echoing in the space between them. He’s never spoken her name before—has never spoken _any_ name as intimately as this, whispered softly in the twilight _._

But he refuses to make promises he can’t keep, won’t do her the disservice of offering false hope. And that, perhaps, is the real tragedy of all of this. They were doomed before they started, fated by every turn to end up right back here, and anything that felt like a possibility between them was only ever a dead end disguised as hope. So there is no comfort to be found in the future, in the what ifs. There remains for them only the here and now, this stolen moment together. 

“Again,” she pleads, stepping closer to him.

“Omera,” he repeats, his voice hoarse. 

He hears her breath catch. 

“It isn’t just me, right?” she asks, a desperate tremble in her voice. “Please say that it isn’t just me. That I am alone in my feelings.”

And so they come to it at last.

He almost tells her how close she had been this afternoon. Almost confesses that he had wanted her to remove his helmet—that he very nearly _let_ her. And because of that, when he leaves the planet in the morning it will be the happiest hardest goodbye.

“No, not just you,” he says instead, words heavy in his mouth. 

Relief seems to flood over her, a sweet smile blooming over her lips. And he feels himself teetering on the edge of something he doesn’t quite understand. In this unfamiliar space he feels exposed and vulnerable, unable to anticipate what happens next, but as he looks to Omera, he finds comfort in the soft expression that settles upon her face. Finds strength in the gentle happiness shining in her eyes when she meets his gaze. 

With a nod of her head, Omera returns to where lantern sits, gathering the blanket in her arms. “When it gets too warm to be indoors, I will bring Winta here and we camp out under the stars. Sometimes, I’ll come out here alone just to be by myself. It is a safe place.”

He watches as she spreads the blanket out in the grassy bank, smoothing down the edges and corners and taking a seat on one side. She looks at him with expectant wide eyes, and he knows it is an invitation. 

In the quiet, the pulse of his racing heart is deafening. 

He takes a step forward and feels himself tip over into the unknown. 

When he lands, Omera is right there next to him, her calm presence grounding him. He has no idea what is happening or where they are—and perhaps should be more concerned—but sitting by her side brings a steadiness to his breathing, soothes down all his frayed edges. 

“Now you know my favorite spot in the galaxy,” she says conversationally. “So which of the outer rim planets is your favorite?” 

The question is so unexpected that he doesn’t answer for a long moment. He’s used to people trying to get him to talk. All his life he’s been pestered with questions about where he came from, what he looks like, his armor, what his training entailed. Then there were the invasive questions about what is meant to _be_ a Mandalorian. What his creed allowed him to do or not do. What he _had_ done, with whom, and _how_. If, over the course of many long years, he’s learned that it’s better to stay silent when confronted by the curiosity of others, it strikes him that with her singular question, he actually wants to answer.

Talking with anyone outside of his covert was always a matter of efficiency. With nearly every interaction, he has maneuvered through the world saying the fewest possible words to achieve his goals. He has never had a desire to converse with _anyone_ before, least of all about something so common as planetary travel. 

And the impulse feels so foreign to him that it has him reeling. 

Omera interprets his silence for him. 

“This isn’t a test,” she laughs. “I know Sorgan isn’t much, hardly ever a blip on anyone’s radar. I’m sure you’ve been to so many planets in the galaxy that are far more interesting.” With that, she stretches her legs out in front of her before settling back on the blanket, her hands resting primly on her stomach. “I’m just curious about what else is out there.”

He wants to tell her that that isn’t the case at all, that there’s _nowhere_ like this, but his mind is trying to catch up to the storm of emotions thundering in his chest. Like this, reposed and relaxed and staring up at the stars at his side, Omera is so open with him, so trusting. And it causes a deep and profound ache in him. 

He makes a decision.

“What do you want to know?” he finally manages, slowly reclining upon the blanket and stretching out alongside her. 

When Omera answers, he thinks he can hear the smile in her voice. “Anything. Everything.”

He runs this over in his mind. Experience has taught him that it was only a matter of time before people came to him with their questions, and he had been prepared to answer what he could of hers. Only now, to be met with such innocent curiosity that had little to do with his past or his creed but so much more about the galaxy and his experience of it leaves him grasping at words. 

And his heart did whisper that it was _him_ that Omera wanted to know. 

To quell the rising sea of panic, he focuses on answering her question as best as he can. He doesn’t have favorite places per se—he doesn’t have favorites of anything, really, at least, not in the way she means. His index of planets are just locations scattered across the galaxy cataloged and categorized according to their uses and strengths. They all had their unique utilities: shelter or information or a place to hide. But he doesn’t want to speak to her about these things, so he turns to face the sky hanging above them and begins to recount other spots in the galaxy. 

He tells her of the snowcaps of a planet so remote and cold, but how the reflection of starlight on the ice made the whole planet glitter in the darkness. And of the kingdoms born on planets made of water so clear that it felt like being surrounded by liquid glass. He shares with her the small planet with three small volcanoes and a litany of endless sunsets. 

Omera occasionally interrupts to ask some questions but mostly stays silent, gazing up at the same star scattered sky and trying to imagine the places he describes. It strikes him that the words he uses now, with her, are so different from the ones he uses with almost everyone else—there is nothing sharp or harsh or jagged about them. There is no _target_ , or _strategy_ , or _plan_. Instead, there is a gentleness to his words, a rounded sort of softness that feels malformed and unfamiliar in his mouth but also tastes like strength on his tongue. And he finds there is a strange kind of freedom in them. He is reminded of the child and all the ways he has been made smooth.

He considers that, perhaps, there is liberation in tenderness. 

In the middle of him describing a desert planet with twin suns, he feels the brush of her hand against his own. He thinks it might be a mistake, but when it happens _again_ , he looks down at where her hand is still pressed against his. When he turns his head towards her in question, Omera is already staring at him. 

She touches him again, hesitant fingers brushing against the back of his hand. “Is this okay?” she asks him, her face half shrouded in starlight. 

He had known that in coming here with her that there was a high possibility that something like this might have happened. He can’t lie to himself and say that he hadn’t expected it. 

The more honest part of himself had even wished for it. 

And not for the first time does he think about finding out for himself if her skin is as soft as he imagines. He thinks about just earlier that very day, when he had held her slim wrists against his chest, the heat of her skin penetrating through all his many layers and armor until he could swear he could feel her warmth against his own skin. And real or imagined he had _longed_ to feel her skin on his. 

At his silence, she begins to withdraw, taking her warmth and softness with her.

He quickly reaches for her hand and covers it with his own. “Okay.”

Omera turns her palm over, sliding her fingers between his and squeezing gently. “Still okay?” 

Not trusting his voice, he nods his head.

Satisfied, she turns her attention back to the night sky above. “When I bring Winta out here, we will lay out, just like this, and make stories out of the stars. Some of it is based on tradition, but most of them are made of great pretend.”

“Will you tell me some of them?” he asks. 

Even in the dark he can still make out her blush. “They’re just silly imaginings of two equally silly girls,” she replies with a wave of her free hand. 

“I would still like to hear them,” he says. “Please.”

Experimentally, he rubs a thumb over that back of her palm and is gratified when he hears her breath catch in her throat. 

Everything about them, it seems, from their shy proximity to their innocent conversation about stars belies a deep yearning that rises from within and crashes over them like a wave. It ebbs from him and flows from her, and pulls them down into an intimacy that is heady and dark and quiet.   
  
If they were to exist at all, it would be in this hidden corner of the universe.

Omera clears her throat, blinking the stardust from her eyes, and begins to weave epics and legends into the wide sky. 

“See that one? The blue one? With the three stars next to it?” she asks and he tries to follow where her finger points. 

“Yes.”

“Have you been there? Does it have a name?” 

“Yes, it’s Celphalus III. A lush planet from all its rain.” 

“No,” she tsks at him in jest. “That’s the heart of the serpent king Oberon doomed to chase his beloved across the plains of all the galaxies. It will remain frozen until the day she returns his affection. Granted, of course, by true love’s kiss.” 

He nods as if to say, _of course_. “And this one?”

“If you connect it with this grouping of stars to the right, they form the spear of great Balthasar, part god, part man, hero of heroes. He moves across the galaxy doing great deeds, fighting for what’s right and protecting the innocent.” 

“I like that one.”

Next to him, Omera hums in approval. “I thought you might,” she laughs.

“What about this one?”

“Ah, for that one we have a traditional tale,” Omera replies before reaching for his arm. He watches, pliant and eager and fascinated, as she loops it around her shoulders, scooting closer and tucking herself into his side. “It’s cold,” she mumbles before looking up at him. “Still okay?” 

In truth, there are rumblings of something permanently shifting within in him, and he thinks perhaps he’s in some danger. 

“Still good,” he breathes. 

With a smile, she tries to find softness between his chest plate and shoulder, resting her head there. It can’t be comfortable for her. He knows far too well how the edges of his armor can dig into one’s skin and he wishes, once and again, that things were different between them. Still, she makes no complaint, instead begins to trace an outline of stars with her finger.

“That’s Hemera, our great mother,” Omera says with reverence. “Ruler of the day, our guide and ancestral protector.”

The lights above continue to flicker on into infinity. A whisper of a breeze surrounds them in the delicate perfume of the night blossoms. And here, on this planet, this singular point in the whole of the universe, where he is wrapped up in Omera’s arms and in the gentle cadence of her voice, he prays that dawn never comes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He wakes first. 

Dawn is fast approaching, the edges of the sky dipping into watercolors as dawn’s rosy fingers reach across the horizon. In the distant treetops there is birdsong, all around them the sounds of life awakening. 

Except where he lies with Omera, the beautiful white blossoms from the night before have wilted away, their petals littered into water below. What had been so magnificent in the darkness as withered away in the light, all of its magic has dissipated with the rising of the sun.

Reality forms and hardens and sinks readily in his stomach. 

For a fleeting moment, he wonders if he’s made a mistake. He crossed a number of personal boundaries last night, toed the line of his creed, and he knows he can’t undo these transgressions or rebuild the lines. He must reckon with all he has conceded, all that he allowed himself, the thoughts that bordered on blasphemous, the touches he not only craved but actively sought out. And as he realizes how they have sought each other out in sleep, held each other close through out the night, his arm finding the dip of her waist, and Omera’s foot wrapped around his ankle, it occurs to him that, even if he emerges with his creed technically in intact, the ramifications of this one night are thorough and complete. 

Because now that he knows what it is to wake up in her arms, to be enveloped in all of her softness, in all of her warmth, to have the curve of her body pressed against him—he understands that it is not a simple matter for _forgetting_. There cannot now be an unknowing. An unlearning. 

There is no coming back from this.

This one night has changed him, irrevocably so, and he does not yet know what that will mean for him and all his remaining days. 

How will he ever look upon white blossoms and not think of her? To smell the scent of lavender and not remember the perfume of her hair? How can he ever be amongst the stars and think of the tales she wove for him in the quiet stillness of this one night? 

And yet, he thinks that this might be the closest he’ll ever come to peace. So he can not bring himself to feel regret. In something so profound, there is no room for remorse.

Not when Omera stirs, long eyelashes fluttering open and revealing her dark eyes. The open smile that blooms across her face when she realizes that he is there with her is heartbreaking in so much as it is beautiful. 

How can he leave this planet, leave her behind, and not be destroyed?

She senses his hesitation. Recognizes how he is wavering. And, because she is good and noble, she whispers, “Come on, you’ve got to get going.” 

When Omera detangles herself from him, it feels like devastation. 

Their walk back to the village is once again a quiet affair, but unlike last night, it is tense with inevitability and heavy with all the things they dare not speak aloud. She is careful not to touch him, and he feels like she is slipping from his fingers like grains of sand. 

Another bend in the path and they’ll be upon the sleepy village. It won’t be long before he and the kid will be on their way to the crest and off-planet forever. His chest tightens at the thought. 

“Wait,” he blurts, halting Omera’s steps. 

But there is nothing to say, no amount of words he can string together to make their impending separation any easier. A logical understanding that they must part, that there was never a path they could have walked together, does not account for the ache in his chest nor the profound longing in his heart that wishes it could be different.

Omera looks at him with a sad understanding as she braces herself, waiting with baited breath as she wraps her arms around herself.

“I—I,” he stammers. “I just—” 

It is of no use.

He calls out her name hopelessly, reaching for her as his words fail. _Omera_.

She goes willingly into his arms, clings to him, and it feels like home. 

“Thank you,” he whispers and hopes she understands that he also means _I will miss you_ and _you are someone special to me_ and _I’m sorry_. 

Then his trembling hand finds her cheek, first the one and then the other. Her eyes search for his own behind his visor, as he slowly bends his head towards her, the metal of his helmet gently resting against her forehead. Omera gasps, but her hands immediately come up to wrap around his wrists as she lets her eyelids fall shut.

And together they breathe for a while. 

“Please, take care,” she pleads. 

“You too,” he responds. “I’ll remember you, and Winta, and this place.”

She nods. “I am glad I was able to meet you in this lifetime,” she whispers.

Then he takes her hands in his, gives them a gentle squeeze. They do not speak of regret or of things that can never be. Neither do they voice sentiments of affection or longing. Rather, there exists between them a gentle surrender, acceptance that this is how it must be, and the quiet acknowledgment that this thing that never was can nevertheless live on as a cherished memory.

“Okay,” she takes one deep breath and steps back. Omera sends him one last kind smile, and he tries to memorize it. Wants to remember her just like this, beautiful and soft in the light of the new day. “Okay. Let’s get you on your way. The stars await.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties in the naming of the constellations. 
> 
> Oberon - Most commonly known as the King of Fairies from Shakespeare's **A Midsummer Night's Dream**. Gratuitously used here because I always get the names Oberon and Oberyn (as in, Oberyn Martell from GOT) mixed up. 
> 
> Hemera - Primordial goddess from Ancient Greece, who is not a mother/protective goddess, but selected here because parallels between Hemera and Omera. 
> 
> Cephalus - Named here because of this passage from Amal El-Mohtar's **This is How You Lose The Time War** :
> 
> _Flowers grow far away on a planet they’ll call Cephalus, and these flowers bloom once a century, when the living star and its black-hole binary enter conjunction. I want to fix you a bouquet of them, gathered across eight hundred thousand years, so you can draw our whole engagement in a single breath, all the ages we’ve shaped together._
> 
> [clio-in-retrograde](https://clio-in-retrograde.tumblr.com)


End file.
